


roll off your tongue (like a whisper in the winter)

by longtime_lurker



Category: Bandom, Fueled by Ramen, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-23
Updated: 2013-11-23
Packaged: 2018-01-02 11:12:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1056092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longtime_lurker/pseuds/longtime_lurker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>put on your bedroom face for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	roll off your tongue (like a whisper in the winter)

**Author's Note:**

> title and summary from La Dispute. originally posted to LiveJournal in August 2007.

Brendon Urie is a big damn rockstar and plays eight different instruments and cannot for the life of him get this fucking hotel room door open. 

Next to him, in the corridor, his guitarist is shaking with silent laughter. His guitarist, who is about to accompany Brendon into said hotel room and, if all goes well, significantly complicate their working relationship. Which is probably the reason why Brendon's hands are wobbling so badly that he can't get the stupid keycard into its stupid teeny slot in the first place. 

Huh, he thinks. So this must be what stage fright feels like. 

Ryan, still laughing, holds out a hand for the card with his patented I Am Taking Pity On Brendon face. "You know," he deadpans as he effortlessly unlocks the door, "if you have this much trouble getting tab A into slot B -" 

Brendon tackles him, tumbling them into the suite, and it's nice, it's reassuring. It takes some of the tension off. They might do this any day, Brendon thinks. Any old day on which Ryan hadn't caught Brendon's wrist as the four of them came bounding out of the venue into the crisp December city air. Hadn't looked at Brendon with stage-flushed cheeks and snowflakes in his eyelashes, hadn't chewed on his lip and taken a step and kissed Brendon on the mouth right there in the parking lot as the snow fell around them. 

Both of them are still wearing their heavy outdoor layers, but between the impromptu wrestling match and the well-heated hotel room, that needs to change. Plus Brendon would really like to touch Ryan's skin now, thank you. He toes off his shoes, reaches out and catches the end of Ryan's scarf, pulls; Ryan, answering Brendon’s grin with one of his own, pushes Brendon's coat off his shoulders. And once they get down to indoor clothes, Brendon ...kind of sees no reason to stop, and he tips his head up to kiss Ryan again, tugs at the buttons of Ryan's vest. There's the spark of challenge in Ryan's eyes when he pulls away, leaving his vest in Brendon's hands, and moves to unbutton Brendon's shirt. 

They're making out against the wall of Ryan's hotel room and it ought to be really surreal but it isn't, it feels weirdly familiar to Brendon, déjà vu or coming home. Ryan is all planes and angles under Brendon's touch, and there's snow melting in his artfully dishevelled hair and Brendon wants, no, needs to get closer. When he presses up against Ryan, the shirtless slide of skin on skin is utterly fucking fantastic. Ryan's cupping Brendon's face in both his hands, making small, pleased sounds as their tongues brush, and Brendon can recognize the warmth of arousal pooling low in his stomach. He crowds Ryan up against the wall, palms against the front pockets of Ryan's skinny jeans and Ryan breaks away again to mutter, "waitwaitwait, door, gotta lock the door." 

Brendon rushes to do it, of course, because that counts as a request from Ryan and he'd really do whatever Ryan wanted at this point as long as it meant he'd get to feel Ryan's tongue swipe along his lower lip again. He even bends around the door to flip the sign on the handle to Do Not Disturb, and when he straightens up and turns around he's pretty sure that Ryan was just watching his ass. 

"Were you just watching my ass?" 

Ryan huffs, but he's smiling, and instead of answering he pulls Brendon to him again. 

The bed in the middle of the room is big and white and piled with pillows and striking Brendon as extremely inviting right now, what with Ryan's open mouth and smooth chest and flat hips aligned oh so perfectly against his own. As he sucks on Ryan's tongue he considers the merits of the subtle approach versus just sort of dragging Ryan down onto the comforter, and is only distracted from his internal debate by Ryan's fingers fumbling with his zipper. 

"Hold on, hold on." 

Ryan jerks back his hands and says, "Tell me you're not freaking out _now."_

Which is totally unfair, Brendon thinks - Ryan just _assuming_ that he's going to put out, god, does he _look_ easy? Except possibly for the part twenty minutes ago, where they'd gotten four steps into the hotel lobby, hands laced together, and Brendon had said, "Want to fuck?" and Ryan had looked at him and sped up his walking speed to about ten times the usual slow amble. Yeah, in all fairness, he can maybe see where Ryan is coming from. Anyway. He makes a face at Ryan and says, "As _if,"_ as he bends down to yank off his socks. "I just can't get naked-except-for-socks, dude. It's lame." 

Ryan gives Brendon a Look - he has clearly been taking bitchface lessons from Spencer - and takes up where he left off, which involves his hands extremely close to Brendon's dick. Brendon shuts up and goes with it. Brendon is not stupid. 

Ryan slides Brendon's pants and boxers down his hips, touch lingering an extra moment on the swell of Brendon's ass. Then he skins off those girljeans in record time and Brendon's brain goes ahead and shuts down entirely, partly from the unconscious little shimmy of Ryan's hips and partly because Ryan isn't wearing any underwear. His knees, being connected to his brain, also give out and he sits down on the bed with a thud; Ryan glances down at him with a slight smile, so _knowing_ that Brendon's breath catches. 

He begins to tug off one fingerless glove and Brendon speaks up, surprising himself with the rough sound of his own voice. "Um, can you. Leave them on?" 

There's amusement in the curve of Ryan's lip; he nods, more graceful and self-possessed than any half-hard naked boy has a right to be as he closes the distance between them, drops down over Brendon in the big bed, straddles him. He's balancing on hands and knees, a frustrating expanse of air still between them. Ryan is all long limbs and liquid movement, hair falling into his eyes, still smiling that secret smile, and Brendon arches up enthusiastically to meet his mouth; his heartbeat's accelerating, _this is it, this is it,_ the culmination of all those words and glances and touches public and private, _this is it_ -

They start out surprisingly gentle, just quiet kisses with breaths between. That lasts until Ryan sucks Brendon's lower lip between his teeth and touches him - just a hand on his chest, but it makes him shiver and lift his hips involuntarily, seeking contact that Ryan won't give yet. Brendon can _taste_ his laugh, the bastard, and he lets out a frustrated noise as Ryan breaks away, licks along his jawline, teasing. Still, he can't really complain, not when Ryan's hands are skittering over his skin (Brendon glances down, watching, because _god_ his fingers in those gloves), not when Ryan's mouth is on his throat. Kissing and sucking and Brendon's just sinking his hands into Ryan's hair and sighing a little when Ryan drops down from hands and knees and fucking _rubs_ against Brendon without the least prior notice. Their cocks slide together, the first direct touch shocking, and Brendon throws his head back into the pillows, cursing and trying his utmost not to come right there. 

"Jesus, Ross," he gasps when the immediate danger is past, "you could warn a guy." 

Ryan breathes out a laugh against Brendon's neck. 

He sits up on Brendon's hips, looking down at him, speculative, and Brendon stares right back, mesmerized by the tremble and flex of the muscles in Ryan's slender thighs. Ryan's cock is hard and flushed, up against his stomach, and it's not like Brendon didn't know what Ryan was packing in those pinstriped pants, but _wow,_ that really is a lot of cock. Brendon's hand reaches out of its own accord; its owner watches the first tentative stroke, watches Ryan hiss softly and tilt his face up to the light, and this is so much better, so much hotter, than any kind of staged and packaged erotica Brendon's ever seen. (And he comes from _Vegas._ )

Also superior to strippers or porn, as it turns out, is the way that Ryan's half-gloved fingers look when they wrap around Brendon's own cock, the tug and slide of skin and fabric. Brendon's toes curl and he stretches his arms over his head, thrusting languidly up into Ryan's grip. The friction is perfect, Ryan's hand tightening at the base of his cock and swiping over the head, twisting a little on the upstroke and oh, god, yeah. He could come just like this, lazy and warm. He purrs in the back of his throat, closes his eyes; and then Ryan slips a finger behind his balls, and back, and Brendon's eyes snap open wide. Because, okay. _Not_ that he had imagined this (much), but if he had, it probably would have involved their positions reversed here. Only that seems kind of unimportant now, with the slow, tight circle of Ryan's touch making him ache; and by the time Ryan makes a semi-impossible reach over to the nightstand (Ryan is flexible, good to know) to retrieve the mini-bottle of lotion from the complimentary hotel basket, Brendon is too preoccupied with this foreign feeling - this implacable hollow want pulsing in his blood - to have some big freakout over catching when he thought he'd be pitching. 

When they return, Ryan's fingers are wetslippery, and there's suddenly a third dimension to the movement of his index finger, in and out. In and out. Brendon shivers reflexively. Ryan's hands still for a moment, questioning, and Brendon exclaims, "Don't _stop!"_

Ryan rolls his eyes, but fondly. Then he curls that finger in deeper, leaning down to brush a kiss across Brendon's lips, murmuring in his ear, and, uh, damn. Turns out the monotone takes on a whole new appeal in a sexual context: it's a low, level river of vowels and consonants carrying him along, talking him through it as Ryan works another finger in and Brendon arches amid the pillows. Only some of it's coherent, or maybe Brendon is just too focused on ...other things to catch more than half of the words. 

Ryan's fucking him in earnest now, two fingers curving and scissoring inside him. It doesn't hurt, exactly, but the penetration is like nothing Brendon's experienced. It's the most curious sensation, being opened up to the world; he got naked a good twenty minutes ago, but right now he feels stripped barer than he ever has in his life. _Breaking and entering,_ he thinks, absurdly, and then Ryan quirks his eyebrows at the same time as he twists his fingers upward, and Brendon makes a noise that he's never heard himself make before. 

"Have you ever." Ryan's quiet voice has absolutely no interrogative inflection as he brushes one fingertip across Brendon's prostate, deliberate, and Brendon tries and fails not to writhe shamelessly beneath him. Brendon's no virgin, but this is uncharted territory, scary with novelty and also so fucking _good._ He shakes his head. 

From the flash in Ryan's eyes, he suspects that Ryan might like the idea of being the only one ever to do this. 

If it were Brendon, he would tell his partner in intricate and filthy detail exactly how much the thought pleased him. But Ryan is Ryan, so he only hums to himself, slithers down on Brendon and dips his head. Brendon follows the elegant line of Ryan's neck with his eyes, kind of incredibly turned on by the way that Ryan's glossy brown hair looks between his thighs...and maybe he's still got a touch of the Mormon innocent to him, because he is really, really, _really_ not expecting the tongue that darts in between Ryan's fingers. 

His yelp of surprise comes out more like a whimper. 

The stroke of Ryan's tongue inside him is staggeringly intimate and Brendon moans out loud, he can't help it. He wishes he could see it; tries to picture it in his head, Ryan's lashes on his cheeks and the flash of his little pink tongue, and suddenly has to concentrate really, really hard on not coming. Again. By the time Ryan lifts his head, Brendon's shaking, cock harder than it's ever been in his life. Ryan raises up, saying, "Roll over," and his touch on Brendon's hip is gentle and insistent, and Brendon turns over willingly, propping his head on his arms, and takes a deep breath. 

He feels Ryan run a warm, dry hand (and how does that work anyway, Brendon is already burning up, sweat-wet like he gets onstage) down the curve of his spine, over the rise of his ass; and when Brendon twists his head over his shoulder to glance back at Ryan's face, there's such naked desire written on it that he has to look away. 

He watches Ryan slick himself up with lotion, instead. It's a damn nice visual. Ryan is heavy and leaking by now, and Brendon is faintly amazed at his patience, because _he_ sure as fuck couldn't wait that long. Hell, he's frustrated already, rutting against the comforter, and Ryan laughs a little, places one hand on Brendon's ass to still him. "Hey, hey. We'll get to that." 

Brendon's heart is thudding in his chest; he feels raw, exposed, spread wide, and when Ryan finally lowers himself over him, knees snug on either side of his hips, Brendon can't help the sharp breath he draws in. Ryan - not freezes, exactly; just brings all movement to an utter standstill - and his lips brush Brendon's ear as he whispers, "Okay?" 

Except now the head of his cock is pressing into Brendon's ass, just a little bit; and Brendon can feel, jesus, _feel_ the hot pulse there and without thinking he thrusts blindly back. And Ryan _groans_ and pushes forward and Brendon has a moment of absolute panic (haha, panic, get it, oh god what) because it won't fit, it can't fit, what was he thinking, of course it'll never fit and then. 

Then Ryan Ross is inside of him, all the way. 

Brendon wants, he wants. He wants to babble mindlessly and sing quietly and laugh himself into hysterics and possibly cry, only how emo would that be, for real. He wants to move and jerk and thrash and twist himself back onto Ryan's dick and he wants to lie still in this single captured moment, nothing but the feeling of _so, so full_ and Ryan breathing in his ear, shallow and a little desperate, like Brendon's never heard him sound before. 

He gradually becomes aware that he _is_ in fact mindlessly babbling, something inane along the lines of "fuckgodryanmovepleasefuckohhhgod" repeated over and over again. And that Ryan is not in fact moving; instead he's placing a soft kiss on the nape of Brendon's neck, and Brendon can feel him smile, one of the real smiles that Ryan saves only for people he knows really, really well. 

"You're doing that on purpose," he gasps out, trying to snap his hips back with Ryan's weight draped over him, failing. "You motherfucking _tease -"_

Ryan's grin widens against his skin, and Brendon could punch him right now, he really could. Because now Ryan's pulling back and almost all the way out with a slow pleasurepainful burn. And he leaves the worst kind of throbbing emptiness behind him, and Brendon is just considering choking the guy with a pillow or something - because punching is actually too good for this kind of torture, come to think of it - when Ryan slams back into him. 

Brendon cries out probably a lot louder than he meant to. In the space between this thrust and the next, his hands find the headboard and clutch the bars; he's gonna need something to hold onto, gonna need it when Ryan's hands are closed around his biceps and Ryan's teeth are scraping the side of his neck and Ryan's hips, Ryan's cock, oh, oh, oh. 

Ryan fucks like it's an art form, like the steady beat of chords and drums and bassline, and Brendon will never, ever snicker at the first verse of "Lying" again. 

He's lost all sense of time, suspended. The room is hushed apart from Ryan's heavy breathing and his own choked moans. Ryan shifts angles and hits Brendon's prostate dead-on, and Brendon's perceptions telescope to the pounding pressure inside him, to the agonizing drag of his dick against the white sheets. Ryan bends his head to whisper fucking _filthy_ things into Brendon's ear - and, great, now that'll forever be the Sex Monotone, and Brendon thinks he'll probably have a pretty uncomfortable time of it in public for, like, the rest of his life - and Brendon whines, clenching his jaw so hard that his teeth hurt. He was already close when they started; by now he's shuddering with the need for release as Ryan thrusts into him, smooth and deep. 

"Ryan, Ryan," he breathes, and then, "please." 

And Ryan, merciful creature that he is, slips a hand under Brendon's stomach, and down; and _oh_ his long fingers are jacking Brendon rapid and steady and his long cock is sinking sweetly into Brendon, hitting _there right there_ on every other stroke, and his long tongue is licking a stripe between Brendon's shoulderblades and it's too much. Brendon curses a blue streak and comes. 

His orgasm literally whites out his vision, a pure clear moment in which he's hyper-aware of every nerve, every square inch of skin that Ryan's touching; and then he's back in his body, all arched spine and sweaty hair in the eyes and hands gripping convulsively at the headboard, hearing himself groaning in a voice he doesn't recognize. He slumps face-down into the pillows, sticky and trembling all over, and this seems to be some kind of signal for Ryan: Brendon feels his rhythm falter before breaking entirely, hips jerking wildly against Brendon's ass, and when he gasps Brendon's name and then something that might or might not be "baby," the monotone is totally gone. 

Through a delicious haze, Brendon dimly registers it when Ryan bites down fiercely on his shoulder, and he can _feel_ Ryan spill suddenly inside him, and that's so insanely hot that his body actually tries to come again too. 

And then it's over, holy shit, it's over. Ryan pulls out, collapses on top of Brendon. After a couple of minutes he moves off in a spectacularly dirty slide of sweat and come, and drops his head to the pillow beside Brendon's, looking at him. He's got eye makeup smeared across his cheekbones and a red sex flush spread over his heaving chest and he's far and away the most gorgeous thing Brendon's ever seen. 

"Yeah?" Brendon says, or rather chokes out; and Ryan, control finally broken, pants out, "yeah. _Yeah,"_ and touches two fingers to the pulse in Brendon's neck. 

\- 

Later, curled up together in the gathering dark, they have time for a sensitive and involved discussion of what just happened and the emotional ramifications thereof. Namely: 

"My ass hurts," Brendon grumbles over _Aqua Teen Hunger Force,_ pinching Ryan's nipple and pouting. 

"Of course it does," Ryan says serenely, pushing his rumpled hair out of his eyes, poking at the volume on the remote control and taking another bite of shitty room-service pizza. "I kind of fucked your brains out," and he's looking like the cat that got the cream. 

Man, Brendon really likes the way he says "fuck." He's going to have to figure out how to get Ryan to say it more often. (Possibly a wake-up blowjob tomorrow morning would do the trick? Brendon has an excellent cocksucking mouth.) 

"Pete always told me it's the quiet ones you have to watch out for," he reflects, snuggling happily into Ryan's shoulder, and Ryan says, "Yeah, he would know," and laughs like _he_ knows something. But he's always doing that shit, so Brendon pays him no mind, just turns up to kiss that smug little face and maybe grope him a bit under the blankets. Ryan mumbles something incoherent and contented-sounding, and Brendon feels a twinge of warmth in his insides that has nothing to do with sex.

-

Ryan falls asleep in the blue glow of the TV, soft and clinging in sleep like he never is otherwise. And Brendon Urie, big damn rockstar and spectacularly well-fucked, just lies back and revels in the sweet tired ache of his body; watches the snowflakes pile up on the windowsill, listens to Ryan breathe.


End file.
